


Dear Shadow

by VerityR



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, but for now take this 2008 pop angst, one day ill let kent be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7914721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerityR/pseuds/VerityR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gun to his head, he would’ve said Jack had left the CD in Kent’s car accidentally. That he’d only remembered the song from glancing at the track listing. But the acoustic guitar kicks in, then the echoey vocals. And he remembers: rug burn on his knees from car upholstery, Jack insisting on choosing the music just this once, Jack humming melodies that reverberate through Kent’s skin.</p><p>(Or, two songs that remind Kent of Jack.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Shadow

Kent Parson did not appreciate being psychoanalyzed by his booty calls.

“You know, Parse?” Hook-up Guy shrugged on his shirt, as angrily as he could muster. “That guy seriously did a number on you. And for what? What’d he ever give you?”

Nor was Kent a fan of having things he’d confided thrown back into his face. The world never got tired, it seemed, of trying to teach him the same fucking lesson. Stop giving so much of yourself away. 

But Kent Parson was, for better or for worse, an all-or-nothing kind of guy. Which was why he had his name on the Stanley Cup, but hadn’t had a boyfriend in six years (or ever, depending on your metric). 

Kent answered in him in innuendo. So lazily he wouldn’t even remember it, later. Sleazy grin, shrugged shoulders. That was his standard way of avoiding the messiness of emotions. And Kent’s emotions were always messy. When he allowed himself to have them. What’s that old chestnut about bottling up your emotions? Just… not to? But it couldn’t be helped. The truth was an occupational hazard. 

Which is why Kent was so pissed at himself for telling this Chippendale dancer who was in his phone as “Hook-up Guy” about Jack. Names changed, of course. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, etc,. 

Whatever. There was no way Hook-up Guy watched hockey.

It was stupid, to think anyone could get it. And it’s even stupider that Kent can’t get the question out of his head, even after the guy had gotten a clue and fucked off.

What _did_ Jack ever give him?

“Get off, asshole,” Kent said fondly to his cat, who’d interrupted his post-adolescent angst session to pounce on his chest. He still scratched behind her ears, because she just wanted his love. 

“You don’t think I have ‘arrested psychological development’, right, Kit?”

Kit started purring contentedly, which Kent took as a point in his favor. His cat, at least, would never turn on him.

A Fleet Foxes CD.

The answer came when Kent wasn’t looking for it, though it’s clearly more literal than Hook-up Guy had intended his very condescending question to be.

It was kind of a weird, actually. Out of character for Jack, who was practically allergic to pop culture of any and all kinds. And Jack wasn’t exactly one for romantic gestures, grand or otherwise. Not that they could afford to be, even if he had been.

Kent couldn’t even remember how he had wound up with it, the CD. But it was kicking around his apartment somewhere, that he was sure of. Because Jack’s mom had said, _no, sweetie, he’s sure he doesn’t want anything back_. And, well, what reason did Kent have to get rid of it? 

God, whatever. He’s just tired. This happened, sometimes, when Kent let himself forget for long stretches of time. Semi-anonymous sex was good for that, the forgetting. But when it inevitably ended, when the guy left him, he was alone again. Kent Parson couldn’t exist without other people to bounce off of. He was still something. But he wasn’t quite sure what that was. 

How fucking sad was that? There were people out there who could recite everything about Kent Parson. Well. Everything that could be found on his Wikipedia page. But Kent sometimes forgot what Kent Parson looked like, was shocked at his own reflection in the mirror. What color were his eyes, again?

He was getting weird again. 

Better to just his putting his iTunes on shuffle and try to sleep. 

But then, of course— _of course_ —the song has to be something else guaranteed to make him think of Jack fucking Zimmermann. Jack, the nexus of all the secrets behind his ostensible dream of a life.

 _I’m in my room, it’s a typical Tuesday night / I’m listening to the kind of music she doesn’t like…_

“So this one is… ?” Jack is consistently baffled by Kent’s radio station edicts. He seems incapable of retaining pop culture trivia for any longer than it takes Kent to explain it. Probably, he just likes pushing Kent’s buttons. But the joke’s on him— Kent likes any touching he gets.

“ _Zimms_.” 

“Kenny,” Jack deadpans.

“I _watched_ this music video with you.”

 _…but she wears short skirts / I wear t-shirts / she’s cheer captain / and I’m on the bleachers…_

“You mean you _forced_ me to watch this music video with you.”

“Semantics.”

“Was it the one with, like,” Jack scrunches up his nose, “some girl-next-door who wears big glasses? And then she holds up signs?”

“Oh, my God, Jack,” Kent says, exasperated, “I _know_ you know who Taylor Swift is.”

Jack knits his dark eyebrows. “That was Taylor Swift? I thought she was the country music one.”

Kent sighs. “Taylor Swift _transcends_ genre.”

Jack just _hmms_ in response. As if he has any grounds to doubt Kent’s superior musical taste.

“What do you even listen to, when I’m not forcing Top 40 on you? Self-help audiobooks? Train whistle sound effects?”

Jack smiles, the way he often does when he’s avoiding a question. But Kent doesn’t have time to think about that, because Jack is tracing patterns on Kent’s knee and if he tries to hold anything else in his head he will literally crash this car.

 _...if you can see that I’m the one who understands you / been here all along, so why can’t you see? / you belong with me…_

God, there’s been three Taylor Swift albums between then and now. It’s always stupid shit like this that trips him up. Like how Jack was in rehab during the VMAs that year, missing that whole thing, Kanye interrupting her speech. Someone must’ve mentioned it to him, right? Or he saw some joke about it on one of those late night shows he’s obsessed with?

Then Kent remembers that Jack’s probably not staying up until 3am these days. That the things Kent used to assume were character quirks have been recategorized as symptoms. That he has no idea who Jack even is anymore, and the only thing he has to show for their relationship is a CD he hasn’t listened to for the better part of a decade.

And, fuck, he doesn’t even own a CD player. Who even buys CDs anymore? Even if Kent could dig the thing up, he’d have to bring it out to his car. And then do what, drive around and listen to music he doesn’t like because a guy he hasn’t had a real conversation with in years did?

Kent can only remember the name of one of the songs; they were all long and nonsensical and vaguely pastoral. So that’s the one he types into the YouTube search bar on his phone. And, before he can examine that particular impulse, Kent’s listening to it.

Gun to his head, he would’ve said Jack had left the CD in Kent’s car accidentally. That he’d only remembered the song from glancing at the track listing. But the acoustic guitar kicks in, then the echoey vocals. And he remembers: rug burn on his knees from car upholstery, Jack insisting on choosing the music just this once, Jack humming melodies that reverberate through Kent’s skin.

_Through the forest / down to your grave / where the birds wait / and the tall grasses wave / they do not / know you anymore..._

“Not exactly a club banger,” Kent says loftily, “But I’ll reserve my judgement.”

Jack smiles, rolls his eyes. “We’re not _in_ a club, Kenny.” 

“But we’re _going_ to a party,” Kent sits up, ready to go. “Which is like a club, but for underage dumbasses.”

Jack doesn’t get up.

“Never thought I’d say this,” Kent throws Jack his sweatshirt. “But, c’mon. Get dressed.”

“Can it wait?” Jack asks, not looking him in the eye. 

“You don’t want to go?” Kent knows he sounds accusatory, but he’s honestly shocked.

Jack keeps fidgeting, balling up the sweatshirt in his hands. “It’s what we always do, is all.”

“Uh, yeah,” Kent rolls his eyes. “Because it’s a party for our _team_? You know, the one you’re the captain of?” 

Wide blue eyes are all the answer Kent gets.

“It would just be weird, is all,” Kent attempts to backpedal. “If we didn’t eventually show up.”

“Like I don’t fucking know that.” Jack sounds more sad than angry. But there’s a fair amount of both.

“Jesus.” Kent shakes his head. “What’s your fucking damage, Jack?” 

“Sorry— I just. Sorry.” Jack blinks a few times, and he’s back to himself. “I just need a… just until the end of the song, okay?”

There was no saying no to Jack.

“Better be one hell of a song, Zimms,” Kent collapses back onto his stomach, splayed over Jack’s chest, his legs. They have the seats folded down— the _height_ of secret boyfriend luxury. “And you better cuddle the fuck out of me.”

Jack kisses his head, which might be his idea of teasing. Kent melts, regardless.

“So, the Fleet Foxes? I didn’t take you for a closet hipster.”

Jack snorts. “I couldn’t fit anything else in the closet if i tried.”

It isn’t funny, but Kent laughs. “But why the CD, then? Jack Zimmermann too good for illegally downloaded mp3s?”

“Yes,” Jack deadpans. “Also, I liked the cover art.”

It’s a little surprising that Kent gets that out of him. Jack hates talking about Jack. Giving up any part of himself. Kent recognizes this without understanding it in the slightest— he would love nothing more than to give all of himself away.

“But why?” Kent asks, like a bratty little kid. He can’t help himself, now that the floodgates have been opened. Like now’s his chance to solve the grand mystery that is Jack Zimmermann.

“Well, it’s this detail of this big, old painting,” Jack answers, blushing just a bit. “It’s beautiful, at first. And then you look closer, and it’s complete chaos. All these vignettes, but they’re each doing something totally bizarre. Like, there’s this one guy butchering a pig. And these two bare asses just sticking out a window.”

Jack gets up suddenly, recovering the CD from the dash, his own bare ass very much in view. Kent slaps it because, really, Jack makes it too easy.

“Oh, _very_ funny, Kenny.”

“You love it,” Kent says, but he means, you love me. 

“Just look.” 

Jack palms him the CD. The touch lingers, Jack running a finger up his forearm, making him shiver. Every touch counts.

 _…Dear shadow, alive and well, / how can the body die / you tell me everything, / anything true…_

Kent does more than just look, inspecting the image like it’s a map and he’s been lost in the desert for days. Like by studying the things Jack will admit to loving, Kent can reverse engineer a love confession of his own.

“It’s still beautiful,” Kent decides, “even after you realize it’s chaos.”

Jack huffs a quiet laugh. “You corny bastard.”

“It must be contagious.” Kent pins him, starts kissing his neck. “I like it. I’ve decided. The music, the cover.”

“And me,” Jack finishes, cheekily.

“Nah,” Kent shrugs. “You, I love.”

_…in the town one morning I went / staggering through premonitions of my death / I don't see / anybody that dear to me…_

The memory fades as the song does. Kent still can't remember if Jack meant to give him the CD or not. Even now, he's scouring his life for breadcrumbs Jack would’ve never thought to leave. And even now, Kent can't help thinking that maybe— it was always going to be maybe— he could’ve figured it out. If he hadn't sped past every red flag. If he had ever said no. If he had just listened to the lyrics.

Maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> Various interspersed lyrics from "You Belong With Me" by Taylor Swift and "Tiger Mountain Peasant Song" by Fleet Foxes. Title also from Tiger Mountain Peasant Song. (Did I intentionally make Kent a Taylor Swift fan for the sole purpose of imagining him and Bitty arguing about whether Taylor or Beyoncé deserved to win the 2009 VMA for best video? Whaaaaaat? Noooooo.)
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought!


End file.
